deepundergroundpoetry.com

for julia

the empty house smells of something delicious caught on fire
white snow is gathering on chipping windowsills
and tropical fish are writhing
on my carpet
against the edges of glass cups
in my sweaty, seven-year-old palms

i don’t remember when i realized this was not a game
that three second memories would remember only
how drowning feels like instinct
tails tickle my fragile wrist and i am laughing
while my heart knocks impolitely against a rib cage door

i recite this romanticized torture
on the skinny stairwell from lunch
and the word sadism spills out of your red lips,
stretching taut like a drum over braces: how exciting
before you disappear into the artificial sunlight of english class

i spend the rest of my day trying to find a word to define you
as if the quivering spaces between chapped lips
can delineate fear and peace intrinsically intertwined
manifesting in an ocean, in a girl wearing white garters
cradling, straddling the words:
“i don’t want to be anyone’s poem”
like stealing flowers,
stendhal syndrome,
legs crossed but mouth agape,
a word without synonyms
what a cliché;
this language has already touched all of you

and maybe the truth is not as warm
maybe the truth is all the songs i’ve attached to you
have more to do with the boy’s names engraved against your thighs
and maybe the universe having no idea who we are
isn’t as pretty as i told you with dilated eyes
i’m sorry my fingers are cold and grasping like an infant
and sorrier that i am more concerned about my circulation
then the fact that you are holding my hand

though our almost summer, almost romance
exists only in the white sound of a sleeping brain
sometimes i still remember the night we clung to each other,
sinking too slowly into a rotting couch
our lungs, heavy with the same smoke, never expanding in time.
drawing skinny circles, all chipping black nail polish on shaking skin
fluorescent grocery store lights, wet grass
and sprinting through corn mazes
spinning in frigid circles to forget a place
before you’ve even left

drinking cranberry juice from mason jars
while you scroll through my dreams
of rape and rot and teeth and teeth and teeth
you kissing him sober, all dry hands and dirty eyes
when i read “i could even float on my back” scribbled messily
i could feel the shattering of my whole heart

you’re always too close to the sun
empty pink wine bottles and "you are so special"
scrawled on my mirror in lip gloss
while your mother asks what i tutor you in
you never looks scared except at the words i don't know
lingering like salty saliva and bloodshot eyes
i can't decide if you are an incubator dream or a vigilant one
i don't know i don't know i don't know

and even though you’re swollen with insanity,
all i can think of is touching your little face
but my fingertips are spilling blood again
i’ve misplaced all my skin,
sent it swimming down the summer drain
and though november is starting to rot,
i can still see you behind my eyelids;
the snow is dirty everywhere but next to you
my bloody fingers have left streaks down
your cheeks
and i am laughing
and you are only the most beautiful mass of viscous tissue
to writhe out of the palm of my hand
Written by isntpoetry
Published
All writing remains the property of the author. Don't use it for any purpose without their permission.
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